The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [4]
“Let’s get you fixed up,” I said to Liz. “Get you out of those wet things.” I looked at Isaac. “How much is for us?” I said.
“Two buckets.”
The rest was for the four horses, the milk cow, and the one hen still living. I said, “Mary, you bring up one. John, get the other.” And then, I’m sorry to say, my voice turned hard. “And don’t you spill a drop, you hear me, young man?”
“Yes, ma’am.” John licked his lips and looked at the buckets, the question showing on his face.
I glanced at Isaac. He shook his head but said, “One finger. Stick one finger in and lick it. That’ll hold you till supper.” Mary, John, and Liz each put a finger in one of the buckets and then, their cheeks pulling, they sucked their fingers dry.
“All right now,” I said. “There’s dinner to get on.” What there was of it, I thought. I took Liz’s hand; she gripped it tight. I looked at Isaac, but he was heading off to the corral carrying two of the buckets. There the horses stood near the railing, their nostrils quivering like they knew water was coming.
“Come on,” I said to the children, and we began the climb up the rise to our wood house, Mary and John with the buckets, Liz holding on to me while Isaac went the other way.
2
LIZ
It was later that day when Isaac came into the kitchen; he’d been out in the east pasture. His shirt, wet with sweat, stuck to his back. The heat had worked on my nerves, making my skin prickle and my feet swell up. I was peevish with the children. They kept asking for water and for something to eat. I told them to sit down, quit all that whining, supper was coming in due time. Then I swatted Emma’s bottom. She was two, and I was in no mood for her fussiness.
Putting Liz in the well was wrong. I should have stopped Isaac from doing it, I should have stood up to him. But I hadn’t, and that shamed me. The only time I’d ever stood up to him was before we were married. Now, when I believed he was wrong, when Liz needed me to stand my ground, I had forgotten how.
Isaac came into the kitchen and hung his wide-brimmed hat on a peg. My shame kept me from looking at him. “Six more dead,” he told me, his voice low. I gave him a rag to wipe the white dust from his face and hands. The children were just a step away, lined up on the benches along the table, napkins tucked into their collars. I had scared them into being quiet. They were peeking at me and Isaac, listening. “Pneumonia,” Isaac said.
I’d lost track of how many cows that made altogether. “Sixtyseven,” he said, like he had read my mind.
The first time we lost a cow to a sickness, I figured we’d butcher it and make steaks. It’d see us through for a good long time. But Isaac wouldn’t do it; he’d heard of people dying that way. He didn’t trust the meat, and I always went along with him. Today, I wasn’t so sure. Today, I would have been willing to chance it. The thought of steaks made my mouth water.
Steaks were for city folks, though, not for us. In the Badlands, a rancher what butchered a healthy cow for his own family was thought a foolish man. It didn’t matter if his children were hungry. Cows were that man’s livelihood, and to eat one was the same as eating dollar bills by the handful.
Breathing deep, Isaac looked into the iron pot simmering on the cookstove. There wasn’t much to look at, just stringy meat from the scrawny red and brown hen the children had called Miss Bossy up until then. That and a few brown-edged shreds of cabbage.
Isaac wiped his forehead with the rag, then looked into the pitcher. “Jerseybell’s not giving much milk.”
I stirred the stew, scraping the bottom of the pot where it was sticking some. “I know it,” I said.
“Still have a fair amount of tobacco saved,” he said. “Al McKee might be willing to swap for a can of milk.” Still stirring, I nodded to show I was listening. There was only one short row of tin cans on the cupboard shelf that hung off to the side of the cookstove. Isaac picked up one of the tins—pears, I thought